


life can only be understood backwards, and sometimes not even then

by revolution_but_civilization



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Books, Combeferre is a nerd, Combeferre uses so many nicknames for Courf, Dorks in Love, Enjolras Has Feelings, I Made Myself Cry, Joly has a cane, M/M, Med Student Combeferre, Pancakes, Protest Gone Wrong, Protests, Sadness, Some Fluff, and does not like them, coffee!!!, college students, grantaire has good childcare skills, hmm, hmm i can't think of more tags, hmm someone starts a fire, it gets sappy towards the end, med student joly, mon petit canard, poor gavroche, tear gas and rubber bullets, there are paramedics, they/them pronouns for prouvaire, where did my capital letters go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolution_but_civilization/pseuds/revolution_but_civilization
Summary: the last day or so of courfeyrac and combeferre's lives, told backwards -- a botched protestpay attention to the warnings-- there is violence + death mentioned and/or shown in the first 3 chapters, and police presence at the protest shows up in chapter 4but the last 2 chapters are just fluffyeah it's told backwards, if you really don't like that, you can start at chapter 6 and read that first, then chapter 5, then 4, etc.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. April 7th—8:00 AM

**Author's Note:**

> if you like this, or don't, feel free to drop me a comment or a kudos

_ 5 DEAD, 23 INJURED IN DOWNTOWN RIOTS _

The headline screamed out, coupled with a serious-looking news reporter.

“Thank you Alana,” he said. “Now, onto our main story. Five confirmed fatalities and at least twenty-three serious injuries, with eleven hospitalizations, have resulted from protests gone wrong yesterday in downtown Paris. The protesters, primarily college and high school students, were marching against recent policy changes that they viewed to be discriminatory against LGBT+ and other minority students in many area universities, when police showed up to keep the protest safe and in check. At the time of their arrival, the protest swiftly turned violent, with protesters throwing—”

Enjolras snapped off the TV, a look of disgust upon his face.

Outside, it was storming, but he hardly noticed.


	2. April 6th—10:52 AM

When the haze had faded enough to be navigable, the Amis, or what was left of them, met up near the fountain they had started the day by not so long ago. Most had some sort of visible injury—bleeding or bruised and a few black eyes. Joly was limping, leaning on Bossuet, having lost his cane somewhere in the melee.

Enjolras scanned the group, silently counting heads. _Prouvaire—here, minor abrasions. Bossuet and Joly—here, missing cane and broken arm respectively. Bahorel—saw him get arrested, will have to–_

“They used rubber bullets!” Prouvaire shouted, almost in tears and interrupting Enjolras’ train of thought. Feuilly patted them on the shoulder, water sparkling in his eyes as well, though that could have been the lingering effects of tear gas.

“Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Gavroche are still unaccounted for,” Enjolras broke in, checking again to make sure he wasn’t just not seeing them. “Did anyone see them get arrested, or has anyone heard from them?”

Mumbles went up from the group, accompanied by frowns and shakes of the head. Joly pulled out his phone, squinting at his text messages, before shaking his head. “Last text I got from Combeferre was this morning at eight fifty-seven. Nothing new.”

Enjolras puffed out his cheeks and let out a huge breath of air. “Okay. Okay. Joly, try to text Combeferre, ask where he is and if either of the others are with him. Feuilly and Grantaire, come with me, we’re going to go look for them. Everyone else, stay put,” he commanded.

Feuilly and Grantaire moved to his side, and he put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “They’re probably just lost. We’ll find them.” The three of them moved off, leaving the others behind them in various states of disrepair.

“Gavroche? Courfeyrac? Combeferre?” Grantaire called out softly as they walked through the smoky haze of what used to be the protest. Others ran past, bleeding or crying, and Enjolras wondered how it ever went this wrong.

“ENJ!” a voice cried, and he felt arms around his waist. Gavroche was sobbing into his vest, face buried in the red fabric. Enjolras patted him awkwardly on the head, cursing his sub-par childcare skills.

“Thank God,” Grantaire muttered, coming over and squatting next to the boy. “Hey Gav,” he said carefully. “I’m glad we found you.”

The boy switched over to hugging the artist tightly around the neck, and Enjolras couldn’t be more relieved. “I– I saw… I could see you guys when they shot the gas, and– and then I couldn’t find you!” Gavroche bawled, big tears rolling down his face.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, voice full of sympathy. “But we found you now, and it’s going to be okay.” He paused for a second, glanced up at Enjolras for a second, and then nodded to himself. “I… yeah, I’ll take you back to where we’re all meeting up, alright? And it’s going to be okay,” he repeated.

Gavroche stood shakily up, taking Grantaire’s hand in his, and together they walked off through the haze.

Enjolras pursed his lips, before nodding in the general direction of Feuilly. “We just need to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac now.” But the other young man was already several meters away, staring forlornly at something against a wall. “Fine,” Enjolras mumbled, jogging over to stand next to him. “Feuilly? What’s— oh.”

There against the wall slumped Combeferre, glasses cracked and dark skin as ashen as one of those ghosts he would never deny. At his side, hand twisted into the fabric of his boyfriend’s sweatshirt, was Courfeyrac. Both were unmoving.

“Oh God,” Feuilly choked out, eyes wide. “We need to… we need to get them out of this smoke.”

Enjolras nodded in agreement though he couldn’t find the words to say anything, and bent down to carefully pick up Courfeyrac, while Feuilly lifted Combeferre.

Together, they walked back to the fountain where their friends were waiting. Joly was tending to a cut on Gavroche’s head when they arrived, the boy still crying.

“Enj, did you find—” Grantaire called out hopefully, stopping short when he saw the loads that Enjolras and Feuilly were bearing.

“Is… is it… what happened?” Prouvaire stuttered out, wrapping their arms around themself as though they were cold.

Enjolras did not respond, only walked to where Joly was sitting and carefully laid Courfeyrac down, Feuilly following after him and doing the same with Combeferre.

“We found them up against a wall over there,” Feuilly said, gesturing back into the haze.

Joly frowned heavily, securing the bandage on Gavroche’s head and moving next to the two young men, trying to feel a pulse. “Feuilly, call emergency services,” he commanded, then pulled Enjolras down to kneeling next to him. “Enjolras, chest compressions on Courfeyrac, stat.”

The two of them worked in silence for several minutes, and no one around them spoke. Finally, Joly broke the silence.

“I’d say the tear gas probably presented complications with Courfeyrac’s asthma,” he softly explained, still doing chest compressions. “And I’m not one hundred percent sure about Combeferre, but it may have been the rubber bullets fired at close range or a crowd crush. These two were awfully near the front when I last saw them.”

Enjolras held back a sob, though he could hardly see through the tears fogging his vision. “They’ve got to be okay, Joly.” His friend barely seemed to acknowledge this, though Enjolras could see misty eyes behind his glasses.

“Make way!” someone yelled, and paramedics came rushing through. Enjolras scooted back, while Joly stood up, Bossuet supporting him, more professionally and addressed the head paramedic. “I’m a fourth year medical student, madame, if you need any assistance.”

The paramedic shook her head, gesturing to her coworkers to lift Courfeyrac and Combeferre onto stretchers. “No, but thank you for the offer. All we need is information.”

Joly looked disappointed, but he just nodded. “Richard Combeferre and Jean-Luc Courfeyrac,” he said, pointing at the young men now being hastily attached to oxygen and IVs. “Twenty-six and twenty-four years of age respectively. Combeferre has no underlying conditions of which I am aware, while Courfeyrac has chronic asthma. In my opinion, I believe the—”

“Thank you, monsieur,” the paramedic interrupted, shutting Joly up. “That’s enough information.”

Another paramedic came and whispered something in her ear, and her gaze immediately turned pitying. “I’m afraid…” she started, head canted to one side. “I’m afraid… they are both medically deceased.”

Enjolras bit his lip, suddenly feeling unsteady on his feet. Someone whispered, “No,” and he found that it was him. Behind him, he could hear his friends crying or gasping for air, breathing like they thought it could fill the lungs of the dead if they just tried hard enough. He didn’t know how to fix this. It was never supposed to go like this. It was supposed to be a peaceful protest, marching against what they thought was unjust, and it was never supposed to end like this.


	3. April 6th—10:03 AM

“Combeferre!” Courfeyrac cried as the first tear gas canister exploded somewhere nearby. His boyfriend was at his elbow almost immediately, still smiling despite the absolute terror of the moment.

“I’m here, don’t you worry,” Combeferre said softly, reaching out and taking Courfeyrac’s hand. “Let’s move back to the meeting place, alright?”

Courfeyrac nodded, and the two of them slowly moved backwards, hands still linked. It was difficult work, as the crowd was pushing forwards, but they had made progress of several feet before Combeferre noticed the hush falling over the crowd and the advance of the riot police.

“Hey,” he whispered, catching the other’s attention. “Get behind me, please, _mon petit canard_. We need to go.” Courfeyrac seemed confused but listened, moving back and grabbing onto Combeferre’s sweatshirt.

They continued shuffling back, while all around them tear gas canisters burst and the police seemed to grow even more menacing.

“‘Ferre?” Courfeyrac said nervously. “I think they have rubber bullets.”

His boyfriend nodded slowly, biting his lip. “I think so. We need to—”

He was cut off by a scream coming from their right. In the second it took for them to snap their attention in that direction, the police opened fire.

It didn’t look like much, but it had potential to be devastating. Other tactics were generally more useful at quelling unrest, but this protest had turned and the police felt they had no choice. Someone had lit a fire and was hurling flaming sticks at the riot police. So they used the rubber bullets.

Courfeyrac tried to yank Combeferre back, speeding up their retreat even more, but the taller young man was clutching his head and looking pained.

“Courf,” he hissed from between his teeth, clearly trying to remain calm. “I… I think I got hit.”

“Oh my god,” was the response, and Courfeyrac doubled his efforts to move out of the danger. It did not succeed, as the crowd around them writhed.

“Watch out!” Combeferre cried, pushing Courfeyrac back before being shoved to the ground by the crush of people surrounding them hastily trying to move back.

“‘Ferre?” Courfeyrac yelled. He could hear Combeferre hit the ground, and felt people shoving behind them, and heard shouts of pain. The tear gas had completely covered the protest now, and he could hardly see anything at all, but he heard shrieks all around. His eyes were watering and his throat felt like it was closing up and he couldn’t tell which way the right way was to go and Combeferre was on the ground and had been hurt and was maybe being trampled to death right that second and—

A hand clapped on his shoulder, and he turned, looking up through his tears to see Combeferre back up on his feet. “Hey, look me in the eyes,” Combeferre broke in, moving to be directly in front of his companion, trying to reassure him despite his own panic and pain. “We’re going to go sit by that wall over there, alright? Take deep breaths.”

They inched their way over, finally reaching the wall and sitting down in front of it. Courfeyrac’s breathing was ragged, and Combeferre knew that he should address that first. “Please, try to take deep breaths, _mon cœur_.”

“I…” Courfeyrac started, then tried to inhale a large breath. “I can’t… I can’t breathe!” He turned his wide eyes on Combeferre, who pursed his lips and pulled him closer.

“Do you have your inhaler—no, you don’t, it was in the bathroom last night and we forgot to grab it. Alright. This is… suboptimal. Just—just try to stay calm, okay? And we’ll be out of here soon.”

Courfeyrac leaned his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder, blinking his burning eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” Combeferre countered as he kissed Courfeyrac’s curls. “No apologies warranted. Let’s just go to the meeting spot, alright, and regroup with everyone else.”

He attempted to stand up, but winced and plopped back down. Courfeyrac immediately looked alarmed, reaching out a nervous hand. “Does it hurt?” he asked, and received a nod in return.

“Yeah,” Combeferre huffed out, distraught. “All over.” He took a pause and a deep breath, though it was clear that it pained him. “Broken ribs, perhaps? Not good.” He coughed once, before frowning and leaning his head back against the brick wall behind them, turning to look at Courfeyrac. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

Courfeyrac shrugged noncommittally but didn’t say anything, and Combeferre reached out to muss his hair lovingly. “Alright, _chéri_.”

Together, they sat in silence, the only noises being retreating cries from the disintegrating protest, both pulling in ragged breaths that never seemed to bring in enough air.

After several minutes, Combeferre’s head dropped down towards his chest and Courfeyrac’s heart almost stopped. “‘Ferre?” he fretted, grabbing his boyfriend’s arm.

“Fine,” Combeferre gasped, picking his head up again, though it was clear he was anything but. He coughed and tried to focus on Courfeyrac’s face, vision blurring. “Hey,” he wheezed out, head tilted to one side. “You’re adorable, y’know.”

Courfeyrac gave a small sort of laugh, despite feeling his throat closing up. “And… you’re… you’re a nerd,” he forced himself to say.

“Mmm,” was the mumbled reply, and Combeferre moved closer. “I’m your nerd, _mon ange_.” He made a weak attempt to grab Courfeyrac’s hand but missed, and instead Courfeyrac grabbed onto the arm of his sweatshirt. Combeferre smiled softly, shifting so that Courfeyrac’s head was resting against his shoulder. His boyfriend tried to say something, but it didn’t come out of his mouth by the time Combeferre slumped against the wall, unconscious.

And consciousness didn’t stick around for Courfeyrac much longer after that, not with a constricted airway like that and no inhaler to relax it.


	4. April 6th—9:17 AM

“Well, _mon prince_ , shall we go?” Combeferre asked, walking around to open Courfeyrac’s car door. Courfeyrac grinned and took his boyfriend’s proffered hand.

“Yeah, we shall.”

When they reached the rest of their friends around the ornate fountain, they finally had to let go of each other’s hand. Combeferre headed over to confer with Enjolras over a pile of protest signs, while Courfeyrac hopped up on the base of the fountain to gossip with Prouvaire and Bahorel.

People continued to trickle past, and within thirty minutes, sufficient numbers had gathered for the protest to begin.

“Ready, _mon cœur_?” Combeferre asked, practically materializing at Courfeyrac’s side with a grin. “First protest of April, here we come!”

Courfeyrac linked arms with his boyfriend and leaned closer, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Wonderful.”

They followed after Enjolras, who led their little group to merge with the general mass of protestors. As each of them walked past, Enjolras clapped them on the shoulder and gave them an encouraging grin. “Let’s do this.”

All sorts were represented in the mass, and a girl with a leather jacket and rainbow Converse stood at the front of the crowd, a red sign hoisted high in her hand. “Rights in university for all!” she yelled, to resounding cheers and whoops from the assembled protestors. 

Just like that, the protest had begun. Courfeyrac beamed at Combeferre as the crowd shifted forward. “Isn’t this great?”

The group had only been standing there, waving their signs and yelling, for no longer than seven minutes when the police showed up. The reporters who had been lurking near the fringes of the crowd swooped in, some zooming in on the protesters’ faces while others turned their cameras towards the approaching officers.

Combeferre squeezed Courfeyrac’s hand tightly before releasing it as the police filed into orderly rows in front of the crowd, and the protesters started to shift nervously. Some moved backwards, including a couple of the Amis, not wanting to be trapped between riot police and an angry mob should the protest turn violent.

“Don’t worry,” Combeferre whispered to Courfeyrac. “They’re just here to make sure everything stays safe and legal. Nothing will happen.” Though that may have been true, they still both took several steps backwards.

From somewhere in the crowd, a glass bottle flew overhead, shattering on the ground in front of the officers’ feet.


	5. April 6th—7:46 AM

Combeferre awoke to the sounds of _The Phantom of the Opera_ playing from the kitchen, accompanied by the unmistakable tones of Courfeyrac’s voice. He chuckled, swinging his feet off the bed and pulling on an old NASA sweatshirt from the nightstand.

“Hey there,” he said as he walked into the kitchen. Courfeyrac turned around with a bright smile, pointing the spatula at his boyfriend.

“Dooooooown once more to the dungeon of my black despair!” He grinned again and flashed Combeferre a wink before pausing the music. “Good morning, nerd.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, playfully ruffling Courfeyrac’s hair and grabbing a strawberry from the bowl sitting next to the stove. “Good morning, _mon chéri._ I see you’re looking handsome, as always.” He plopped down in a chair at the table and pulled off his glasses to polish them on his sleeve. “What’s the ETA on breakfast?”

“It would be sooner if a certain medical student would help. No pancakes for you,” Courfeyrac sassed, making Combeferre pout dramatically, then laughed and shook his head. “Nah, you’ll get pancakes. Four minutes.”

Four minutes later, Courfeyrac carried over a steaming plate of pancakes with one hand and two mugs of coffee with the other, placing all three down on the table. “Look good?”

“You? Yes. Pancakes? Also yes,” Combeferre said with a smile, leaning over to kiss Courfeyrac’s forehead. “Thank you, _mignon_. Perfect as always.” They ate in a pleasant silence, the only noise the hum of traffic from the street below.

Once they had both eaten their fill of pancakes, Courfeyrac put the remainder into a plastic container in the fridge, and stood with his hands on his hips, looking at Combeferre. “We need to leave here at nine, right? And it’s eight-something now. If you’ll go get dressed, I can wash out the coffee cups.”

Combeferre gave him a jaunty salute, handing him the dirty mugs and heading off to the bedroom to get dressed.

He emerged several minutes later, and Courfeyrac almost died laughing. “No way. You cannot wear that to the protest,” he insisted.

His boyfriend frowned exaggeratedly, gesturing to the white collared shirt, black tie, and khaki pants. “Like Oleg Cassini said, ‘To be well dressed is a little like being in love.’ Plus, don’t deny it, you think I look hot.”

That only got a sigh out of Courfeyrac, and he stood up on his tiptoes to kiss Combeferre. “Yes, I do think that you look hot,” he admitted. “But, lucky you, you’re already in love, so there’s no need to be well dressed. We’re going to a protest, not a high-society dinner. And you look like an extra from _The Book of Mormon_. Please, for the loved of all that is sacred, go change.”

Combeferre sighed as though he was upset, but then grinned and quickly kissed Courfeyrac in return before darting back off to change.

“Much better, and even more handsome,” Courfeyrac proclaimed when Combeferre came back out in a periodic table sweatshirt and jeans. “My turn now.”

When he came out, it was Combeferre’s turn to crack up. “Thief! You stole my clothes!”

Courfeyrac made a pouty face and put his hands on his hips again, the slightly too-long sweater sleeves drooping. “But I’m cute, am I not? And I didn’t steal your jeans. These are mine.”

“Whatever, _mon petit canard_. Because you are so cute, you get a pass,” Combeferre exhaled, swooping over to wrap one arm around his boyfriend’s waist. “And we’ve got about thirty minutes until nine. Wanna read?”

“Of course.” Courfeyrac ducked out from the embrace and practically threw himself over the arm of the couch, already picking up the book lying on the floor. When Combeferre forced a pout at being abandoned like that, the other laughed. “I love you more than what-we-perceive-as-life itself, but I also love books. So sorry.”

Combeferre just shrugged and joined his boyfriend on the couch, leaning up against him while scrolling through his phone.

It was another comfortable silence. At 8:55, Combeferre carefully extracted himself from the arm Courfeyrac had thrown around his shoulder and flipped off the light switch. “Time to go!” He absentmindedly wandered towards the door, trying to put his shoes on while texting someone.

“What on earth are you doing?” Courfeyrac asked, lacing up his own shoes. Combeferre nodded to himself, before tucking his phone in his back pocket and smiling at Courfeyrac.

“Texted Joly and told him we were on our way. Ready?” He extended his hand towards his boyfriend, helping him up from his spot on the floor, and together they headed out of the apartment, Courfeyrac locking the door behind them.


	6. April 5th—10:31 PM

After Courfeyrac yawned for the fifth time, and his eyes almost shut, Combeferre snickered and leaned closer. “You tired? Or is the book just that boring?”

Courfeyrac put the effort in to roll his eyes, then shut the book loudly and put it onto his nightstand. “No books are boring, except your anatomy textbooks.” He blinked at Combeferre, scooting further away from the edge of the bed. “I am tired though.”

Combeferre smiled softly and clicked off the lamp. “Time to sleep, then,” he murmured, and felt Courfeyrac’s arms wrap around him.

“Yup, it’s time to sleep,” the other repeated drowsily. He paused for the space of a few breaths, before muttering, “Hey, ‘Ferre.”

His boyfriend made a sleepy noise of acknowledgement, and Courfeyrac continued. “I love you, y’know, a lot.” He yawned, ending the sentence. “Yeah.”

“I love you too, _mon ange_ ,” Combeferre replied, resting his chin on Courfeyrac’s curls. “Go to sleep now, alright? We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Courfeyrac murmured something incoherent, head nodding. “Love you today…” he started. “And… the day after today, and the day after that… and all the days. Mhmm. Love you all the days ever.”

Combeferre couldn’t help but smile, and pulled the shorter young man closer to his chest. “Of course, and I love you just the same. _Mon cœur_ **.”**

**Author's Note:**

> accuracy of this story? debatable  
> BUT i did try to do research and run stuff by my friends (who are scientifically inclined but seemed alarmed at the amount of questions i asked them)  
> rubber bullets? bad at aiming and dangerous  
> i know nothing very specific about tear gas or the combination of tear gas and asthma, having never actually been where tear gas was present, but i tried to do research  
> broken ribs can puncture lungs, which can be dangerous and deadly  
> yeah that's what i researched  
> riot control, deadly injuries, and french nicknames


End file.
